


Act I, Scene I: The Tragedy of Public Faith

by PapaNoLivesMatter



Series: Tittle Pending UwU [1]
Category: The Boys (TV 2019)
Genre: Hughie likes winning, The boys are Vought, enjoying a good show, politics have gotten complex after the war, restoring public faith
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-23
Updated: 2019-08-23
Packaged: 2020-09-24 22:00:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20365771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PapaNoLivesMatter/pseuds/PapaNoLivesMatter
Summary: After the war, most weren't able to glimpse these new strange people as anything but monsters. How wrong they were, they are people just like them but without the shortcoming that being so...flimsy could cause. An opportunity like this, however, and Hughie Campbell could not only restore the failed public image of his Order Without Borders but ensure that their repeated public presence would become unquestioned, but always exciting, common place. All he had to do was stamp out a small group of terrorists, save the multitude of hostages and work through a collection of four disaffected individuals bent on their own and the world's ruin even if they didn't want to see it. Perhaps he'd even be home in time for some light reading by the first. (Also read the notes)





	Act I, Scene I: The Tragedy of Public Faith

**Author's Note:**

> So I was sitting on this one for a little while but had to take a break from finishing it due to some obnoxious life issues like yelling at my college to give me the textbook they wanted me to spend $300 on after they lost it. I love the college system in the US by the way. Anyways, this is a continuation of the universe from my To Break a Wild Stallion universe but with more action as I experiment with prose and slowly unfolding stories. Part two is going to hopefully come out either by the end of this week or the start of next week and I kind of just split them because this would have been really long and I need to put something up so as not to feel like I wasted effort making this for nothing. 
> 
> I will be continuing on with the light hearted verse story since everyone seemed to have uwu eyes for that and it is kind of fun to write the Seven as something more than cartoonish tragic monsters. But if you enjoyed or didn't, all comments and kudos are appreciated.

It wasn’t a pretty sight, far from it in fact. Squatting in a rundown building, the windows decayed and destroyed from nary a passerby and particularly rebellious children and graffitied with the ideological blurbs of the clashing parties. It was almost ironic for them to make their first and last stand there amongst the ruins of the old world and bearing the marks of new age zealotry. Campbell wondered if the Polish government would have simply had the building and all of its occupants gunned down if it weren't for the very public display of hostages in those shattered, decayed windows. Campbell wondered again if they still would have done it if it wasn’t a Vought child company that had first began broadcasting the event. A smirk spread across his features, hidden behind a casual drink of whiskey as he stood in the eye of the storm that was The Order’s operation room. It didn’t matter now, this had become a Vought operation the moment people started sharing it online and he was only happy to show them all what he-what the company could do for them.

“Are they in position?” he drawled, hand raised to a passing assistant who took the glass at once and replaced it with another topped off with fresh ice. 

“Yes sir,” one of their intelligence firms, Sandra was her name or was it Casandra, reported from her bank of consoles. On her screens she had full view of the standoff from every major news network across the continent including the far superior and more adroit cameras Vought didn’t share with the rest of the public. “All four are standing by as per the operation manager’s,” stupid distinction, *he* was the operation’s manager and anyone if he really wanted to be, “instructions. Ironsides is standing ready to begin the assault. All For One is waiting for the go on his drop while Jorōgumo has already begun her...talent.”

Easy, predictable. All the major pieces were set on the board and all he needed to do was draw back the curtain and let the people of Poland, no, the world know that things would be different now. Except for a little wrinkle there, someone caught in their costume? “Constable?” he asked with such an icy edge that it almost cut through the wave of nervous excitement around the room.

“He’s not responding to comms, Sir. Last report had him on location.” Cas-Sandra reported back, having the bravery to meet his full gaze for a few seconds before digging through the system for his exact location. His tracker was still giving off a hearty, healthy beep no matter if he wasn’t exactly where they discussed. More’s the pity then.

“No matter, patch my comms to all of them. Time for a little pre-game pep talk, no?” an overtly jovial nod was all he received from Andrezj’s desk at communications before his Bluetooth was linked to the team’s communicators.

“Good evening everyone. I’ll be brief as I’m sure the abandoned building full of neofacists equipped with enough ballistic arms to begin a small scale insurrection...which is currently hiding in that building, is enough to set the scene. I’m sure you all can guess at the gravity of the situation. It's not just a standoff, it's a hostage situation which means,” he looked off to Andrezj-or was it Armand- who made a three with one hand and two with the other, “thirty two lives hang in the balance. Every eye this side of the equator will be watching us and they will be waiting for heroes. You all know what you have to do, use any means necessary and show the world that The Order isn’t going to sit on its ass.” Not the most inspiring but it set the scene and already the other Vought employees were hard at work assembling any and all information they had and readying it on the screens before them. Above they projected the clearest image of the event, the large empty building in full display as a great hulking giant marched between the rows of concerned onlookers.

He seemed a golem, his body a collection of expertly worked metal until it fit over him like a second skin. Only his head remained uncovered showcasing a very human and very stoic face. He had taken his acting lessons well, there was no room for jokes here and the marketing department had gotten rid of that horrible shitbrown abomination suit he had last. Instead a hero walked amongst man, an iron giant assembled by the people for the people with eyes that spoke of calm revere and waved aside the concerned hands and shouts for aid in polish. “You’re up first, Ironsides. Let’s make a good first impression.

At once the metal plate around the gentle giants head snapped close, a ray of bright red luminescence shooting out from what appeared to be eye slits and letting out a sharp spray of steam as the man leaned forward on one knee, his hands spread out before him. At once he took off, shooting gravel and old street into the air as each thundering step came louder and louder, his speed gaining until the panicked insurrectionists opened fire. The bullets rang off, some coming dangerously close to onlookers but most not even caring in light of the sight before them. The man in iron surged forward, his shoulder shining mirror bright but infinitely more sturdy as he slammed through the makeshift insurrection barricades and the wrought iron gates keeping the compound separate. He took the entire front of the building with him, showering down dust and concrete in a magnificent display. In the aftermath he stood resolute before the comrades of those now crushed beneath the front of the building opened fire in a vein attempt to take him down. Campbell could have left the entire operation to him, hid the hostage deaths and came out smelling like roses. They saved the majority of them yeah and who was to say that it was Ironside’s fault? Unfortunately he needed an undisputed victory and for that he had to use other means.

“All For One, the gate’s open, it’s your turn now.” No, Campbell would need precision for a matter like that. On screen a figure blurred through the open air; the camera feed switching to a camera, a Vought camera, positioned closer into the building as a silver green blur danced between the offending gunmen and they fell hollowly and thankfully bloodlessly with a lone slender figure standing triumphant in the aftermath. Garbed in bright viridian lined with silver, All For One tipped his cavalier hat at his fallen enemies before flashing a bright smile at the no longer impeded Ironside. Showboat, but helpful especially when he was so camera conscious. 

A torrent of gunfire ripped through the air, more insurrectionists were pouring out of the building, large calibers from the looks of it and aimed pointedly at the Frenchman who made artful mincemeat of their compatriots. In the blink of an eye All For One had wiped back around, his saber, One For All-a stupid fucking name but Campbell had listened to Marketing against his better judgement and so the moniker stayed-blurring and deflecting the volley of fire in a fantastic display of bent metals. All For One tipped his hat once more, his grin the perfect mix of playful and shiteating as he dashed through the room and in a blur of movements faster than the eye could track, the insurrectionists were dead. Clean, concise, and already drawing cheers from the crowds. Campbell smiled, took a seat in the vanity chair built in the exact center of the room just for him as he took another sip from his whiskey. 

“We’re probably going to have to save that for the twitter gifs,” one of the feed watchers muttered to herself. She had one of those cheap model rapiers bearing the Vought insignia hanging from her hydro flask cap. Fans everywhere it seemed. A much better sign than when he’d first been moved across the pond.

“Good work,” Campbell gushed into the commline, “we’re still reading quite a few inside so get moving. Oh and Ironsides, be careful around the supports.” Campbell leaned back in his chair, a leisurely gaze cast towards another screen to behold the live reporter feeds on the event. His polish was rusty, nonexistent if he were being honest, but there was no mistaking the excited rush of the reporting. Excitement, wonder, here as human lives were cast aside like nothingness and they cheered. They cheered like good little boys and girls, watching a wave of white crash against the cold hard black that threatened to do the very same thing his Order had down. With far less style, of course.

“Sir?” a nervous voice brought Campbell from his musing, a frown twitching at his features but he composed his face into that handsome mask of easy confidence. They were winning, the good guys were winning, you are a part of that so smile damn it! “Hmm?”

“Another feed has popped up inside the building. It's not one of ours?” Now that was an issue.

“On screen,” he commanded and the feed pulsed for a moment before the grainy quality gave way to display the hostages. Not good. They were lined up together, men women and children, some sporting the insignia of the now victorious party on their breast as the insurrectionists shouted and tested their arm’s functionality. Even worse. “What are they saying? What are they saying?!” he demanded. He knew of course. Paying the currency. They would lose, inevitable so why not at least go down doing something worth remembering. Damn it! Damn it! He hadn’t predicted they would take The Order seriously, they alone amongst the countless other smaller jobs meant to clean up the act. Fame had its costs.

“Jorōgumo,” he hissed into his line, “where are you?” There right there against the very corner of the screen. In the corner of the room where a window had been shattered and the glass scattered, a figure wrapped in dust wrapped in that silvery nothingness that one wouldn’t be able to see unless they had trained their eye for it, crept along the ceiling. Slowly, so slowly as the insurrectionist, presumably the one tasked with carrying out this last dying act of the party and giving his best attempt to wax about the tribulations of tradition and preserving sanctity in the least poetic language Campbell had ever heard. The blur that could be just a horrible frame rate collapse of the jerryrigged camera, stopped just above the man as he finished his speech, his weapon checked as he placed the gun against the first hostage in the row, a man who looked as though he’d already pissed himself. The hammer was drawn back the finger ready to fire and there in a flash of grey silver the gun, the hand and the finger on the trigger fell uselessly to the floor. Blood didn’t spurt immediately, the line of razor sharp silk was pressed too tightly over the stump but when the idiot stepped back, dumbfounded, and found the absence of a limb, blood spurted out in rapid torrents. 

“Link this to the major networks. Oksana, get this streaming on those dummy accounts of yours,” He leaned back into his chair. She could be silent, annoyingly so, when she wanted to be but damn did she get results. The remaining insurrections recovered quickly, their surprise turning to anger as they shot, not at the hostages which they promised to be their last act, but at the maelstrom of formerly transparent and now grey which was rapidly unfurling in a spray of silken waves that tore gunfire asunder and spread outward, lashing in violent assured waves as they parted the terrorists from their lives. The camera had been knocked over, the feed still playing just barely as Jorōgumo wove this way and that, twisting like a weaver as she spun her strands and undid the ones that provided life to her enemies. Poetic in its own right. Maybe they had been branding her all wrong but Campbell knew he was getting more value out of her off screen anyways. Again and again she danced twisting this way and that as the gunfire petered down into nothingness. At last she stood, her elegant dress in its shimmering pure white, not a drop of crimson cast out so to sully her in her sideways present glory. That was until an insurrectionist, the one without a hand held a bound child and tossed him bodily out the window. 

“Fuck!” Campbell shouted into his fist, “Switch the feeds.” The screen flickered back to reveal the child falling followed by the handless gunman and last came the elegant woman, her lower body sheathed in fine silks as she dove outward faster than should be possible until there, just a floor above the ground she caught the child in a swirl of silks from between her arms. The gunman was caught as well, by the foot from another set of arms that sprouted from her lower back. The camera captured her giving the man a glare that could sear right through him before dropping him the rest of the way. He would live, crippled and handless if he was recovered quick enough, but at least he wouldn’t die from the fall in public. The cameras weren’t focused on him though, not when Jorōgumo was lowering herself and the child until they were at the ground floor. She set the child down, smoothing a silver crown cowlick and offering a smile that could outshine the sun. One would never guess she had sliced apart a man whose only crime was recording something he shouldn’t have seen. The child touched down, starting off towards the safety lines before going back, giving the hanging woman a hug around her arms before running back to safety. There would be many twitter gifs tonight, it seemed.

“Hostages are safe, how are the lower floors?” Campbell questioned his ear piece.

“Clear,” Ironside’s ever constant tone sounded through the line.

“Clair, capitaine,” One For All reported with all the vigor of his aesthetic predecessors.

“Send them down, make a final sweep of the building and then prepare for some glamour shots.” He was going to milk this for all it was worth, and he hadn’t even needed to lay out every card.

A crack like thunder, like the earth itself had spread in upheaval and was rising rising so as to crash bac down and swallow the surface whole. What now?

The main screen cracked, this time displaying a helicopter feed that showcased the roof of the abandoned building. Standing bravely, like a man facing the coming dawn and declaring it his enemy, stood...who was this man?

“Name?” Campbell called into the room. Raising his glass of whiskey to be taken away but waving away the proffered replacement and raising straighter into his chair.

“Kacper Nowak. Former soldier, decorated and given the Virtuti Militari before he dropped off the face of the earth at the end of his service. Reported in public marches of the party and wanted in accounts of illegal arms trading.” Oksana ever helpful, ever vigilant and ever proving that Capbell’s scooping her out of what passed as a legal gulag had been a good decision indeed. “And what is that mess he’s wearing?”

The man stood tall and proud, the metal of his status jutting proudly from between an exoskeleton of metal so black it seemed to drink up the light from the helicopter's projector. Yet it wasn’t an exoskeleton, not a suit that protected the mundane mortal flesh from a world of extraordinary delights. It moved with him as he neared the edge of the building and projected his voice to a maddening degree as he waxed about...something. He really should have brushed up on his polish. “Translation?”

“He’s challenging The Order to a final showdown on the roof, and something about the insurrection of communists, nazis and homosexuals.” Ah-so-his-name-would-have-to-be-Andrezj translated from his desk. Was he in on this? A final thrashing to defend the glory of his nation in light of a world that was evolving from antiquated ideals? Maybe, or maybe he just wanted to go out in such a way as to command the absolute respect of those that would attend his funeral. Still, prime time filming like this in such a lighting after the train of hostages was escorted safely out of the building? Campbell wasn’t the head of marketing technically but only a complete moron would pass up this opportunity. Still that suit was a point of contention. It was strange, of course experimental support frames were all the rage in the Orient and Russia supposedly but this went a step forward. 

Criss crossing across the metal frame there seemed to be a slew of cables that pulsed faintly in the grainy video quality. It moved under the frame in some places, under the skin, and moved with him as he talked and talked and talked about the glory of his nation and their dark time during the war. Dangerous? Most certainly, an extremist that not only managed to arm his own battallion and commit an attempted public assassination of political naysayers after a lost ballot of one vote? Mysterious? Yes, oh so very much so. That suit was interesting, it smelled of money and danger and a very, very heavy desire to be seen and applauded. There was another director at work here, another hand pushing all these pieces together. Was this intended? Did Nowak simply go rogue? Was he a plant? Would that wondrously, comically evil looking suit go off taking the building and his three knives with it? All the more reason to simply get on with it.

“You three,” he said at last into his ear piece, “see to that lug on the roof. No showboating, clean it up quickly and you can all be back here to spill chablis on that ugly table.”


End file.
